Do Not Do An Immoral Thing For

Give The Enemy Not Only A Road For Flight, But Also A Means Of Defending It.

The Perfect Woman, You See [is] A Working-woman; Not An Idler; Not A Fine Lady; But One Who [uses] Her Hands And Her Head And Her Heart For The Good Of Others.

There Are Disappointments Which Wring Us, And There Are Those Which Inflict A Wound Whose Mark We Bear To Our Graves. Such Are So Keen That No Future Gratification Of The Same Desire Can Ever Obliterate Them: They Become Registered As A Permanent Loss Of Happiness.

Somebody Might Have Come Along That Way Who Would Have Asked Him His Trouble, And Might Have Cheered Him By Saying That His Notions Were Further Advanced Than Those Of His Grammarian. But Nobody Did Come, Because Nobody Does; And Under The Crushing Recognition Of His Gigantic Error Jude Continued To Wish Himself Out Of The World.

We Colour And Mould According To The Wants Within Us Whatever Our Eyes Bring In.